A Quiet Birthday
by Rayet
Summary: Every year, the only thing Mycroft wanted for his birthday was peace and quiet. That was why he went to The Diogenes Club.


Mycroft Holmes viewed birthdays with a kind of good-humoured cynicism. It wasn't that he disliked the idea of ageing; it was pointless to waste energy worrying over something so inevitable. But he did dislike the inane and repetitive 'well-wishing' that seemed to dominate the occasion. Holding a small position in the British government meant that there were a great many individuals that felt the need to stroke their own sense of importance by sending him the obligatorily-horrendous birthday card, with a few hastily-written lines that he never bothered to read. No, if a birthday were to be cause for celebration, he liked to do so on his own terms: alone.

Hence it had become a personal tradition over the years to spend the majority of the day at his beloved Diogenes Club. If other attendees were even aware of the date's significance, they never felt the need to inform him. After all, the club played host to some of the most anti-social gentlemen of London, and the policy of total silence meant that it was not a place that one went looking for conversation. Mycroft would sit in his favourite chair and indulge in a slice of coffee cake from the tea tray, as he pored over his many papers. And for many years his birthday had passed in this comfortably unremarkable fashion. It was one of the many advantages to having no living relatives, save for an estranged brother whose concept of social norms was usually even more skewed than his own.

But then fate had intervened in the form of a maternal landlady and an ex-army doctor who had proven to be quite a curious influence on said brother. The changes in Sherlock Holmes were initially quite subtle; he looked better-fed, though he still retained that effortlessly-lean physique that Mycroft had always resented. He laughed more often, but less at other people's expense (though there were some notable exceptions to that rule). All in all, he was acting more human than his older brother had ever seen him. It came as part-relief, part worry for Holmes-the-elder that the young detective had chosen to place such trust in other people.

On the one hand, it eased the self-appointed burden of responsibility somewhat, when there were others keeping track of the man's habits and watching out for danger nights. But there was also the nagging concern that people were unreliable, sentimental and general liabilities to people like Sherlock Holmes, who unwisely gave his full energy to anything (or anyone) he deemed important enough. Part of it, a part far bigger than Mycroft really liked to admit, was disappointment that when the man had finally decided to let others back into that 'funny little head' of his, it was not to his only family that he had turned. John Watson's presence helped soften the hostility Sherlock had been directing at his brother ever since that dreadful business all those years ago, but he knew they would never again be considered 'close.'

Hence it came as something of a surprise when his birthday solitude was interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock Holmes to the Diogenes Club, carrying a violin case in one hand and wearing a carefully-blank expression. Mycroft rose from his seat the instant his brother crossed the threshold, expecting some great emergency to have sent him so unexpectedly to the clubhouse he usually made a point of avoiding. But he waved away the silent signal toward the Stranger's Room, (where they would be permitted to discuss any problem aloud) instead gesturing for Mycroft to resume his seat.

Perplexed, Mycroft watched as Sherlock drew up his own chair and sat down, case resting on his lap. The detective refused to meet his eye at first, instead occupying himself with a detailed observation of the small oak-panelled room and its occupants. Mycroft remained unconvinced that there wasn't some terrible reason for this abrupt arrival, but consigned himself to the fact that whatever the issue was, it clearly wasn't too pressing. Indeed, Sherlock looked prepared to spend quite a while at the club. He had removed his gloves and tucked them into his coat pocket, and was slouched in a perfect imitation of the most languid members. He finally met Mycroft's questioning stare and raised his brows defiantly, daring him to protest his presence.

Mycroft shrugged. He had far too much composure to appear ruffled by such a development. If Sherlock Holmes was there to test his patience, then he would leave disappointed. He picked up a dainty silver fork and carefully cut his slice of coffee cake in half. Moving the larger piece onto another plate, he handed it to his brother with a great show of courtesy. An outside observer might not have realised the subtle power-play and unspoken words that were passing between the pair as they sat and enjoyed the silence. Roughly translated, their body language said something along the lines of:

"I thought you were meant to be on a diet?"

"It's my birthday. Cake is traditional birthday fare, and therefore perfectly allowable today."

"Hmm, _Heaven forbid_ Mycroft Holmes ignore _tradition._"

"I didn't have to offer you any, you know."

"Actually, this is quite good. From the organic bakery on Kingston Lane, judging by the icing."

Sherlock finished the whole piece without the slightest protest, knowing it would annoy Mycroft to see him so agreeable. Usually the young man would have complained about the mental energy being wasted on something as pointless as digestion, and criticised his brother's love for those things that he considered little more than 'transport.' Yes, he was definitely up to something; Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock in such a curious mood since the day he'd been escorted to Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a sheet. He was almost… playful. The older Holmes fought the urge to roll his eyes as he returned to his mountain of paperwork.

_Squeak._

The first, tremulous note of a violin being tuned cut through the silence like a gunshot. Several heads turned to look in the direction of the intrusion, expressions ranging from curious to openly antagonistic. Mycroft's eyes widened in horror. Naturally he had been suspicious of the violin case ever since his brother's arrival, but he had never allowed himself to believe Sherlock would _actually _do something as scandalous as play music in the mute club. Sherlock, to his brother's heightened fury, paid the onlookers no heed. Each experimental pluck of the strings was like a crack spreading through a sheet of glass; eventually the whole thing would shatter.

Finally satisfied, Sherlock tucked the instrument beneath his chin and took up his bow. He paused just before it touched the strings, waiting to see what his brother would do. Mycroft, a man who prided himself on having a solution to every problem, found himself yet again stymied by the young upstart's reckless nature. There was nothing he could do save from leaping across the tea tray and seizing the damned thing himself, and he didn't think even _his _natural dignity would survive such a display. Hands balled into fists of impotent fury, he could only watch on as his brother, grinning wickedly, began to play.

_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…_

The tune was unmistakeable. It filled the room with its indecently-cheerful melody, causing the onlookers to smirk. It was Mycroft Holmes' birthday, and his brother was giving him the gift of music; whether he accepted it or not. Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, the stoic government official stared down at his work documents and willed it all to be over. Finally, with a dramatic flourish, Sherlock returned the violin to its case and silenced reigned in The Diogenes Club once more.

Mycroft Holmes could give a cabinet minister a nervous breakdown or make a criminal beg for life imprisonment. But even his most sinister glare had no effect on his little brother, who met it with his usual boldfaced impudence. Gritting his teeth, Mycroft picked up an expensive-looking pen and drew a question mark on the corner of one of his papers. He underlined it twice and turned it to face Sherlock. The corner of the detective's mouth twitched in amusement at the new method of communication. He scribbled a reply in his own Moleskine notebook, tore out the page and folded it in half, like a card. Placing it on the tea-tray, he gave one last nod to his brother, picked up his violin case and strolled out into the street. As the front door snapped shut, Mycroft could have sworn he heard him laugh.

Mycroft Holmes viewed birthdays with a kind of wistful sadness. It wasn't that he missed his youth; memories were often far sweeter than the reality. But he did miss the little brother from his youth, the curly-headed boy who played pirate and begged Mycroft to draw him treasure maps of the backyard. He missed the man he had grown into, the self-proclaimed Consulting Detective who ran around London solving crimes and getting in and out of trouble. How sorely he missed that man, who knew caring wasn't an advantage but had gone and done it anyway.

Sitting in the same chair in the same club on the same day as last year, Mycroft read his papers and ate his cake in silence. There was nobody to interrupt him with their well-wishing, nobody to break the solitude with their noise. Once again his birthday was a quiet one. But it was not as peaceful as it had once seemed. He was restless, expecting someone that would never arrive. Listening for music that would never be played. There was an old slip of paper weighing down his front pocket and every so often he had to take it out and look at it again, if only to remind himself that it existed. It was a torn piece of notepaper, folded in half like a card. And on the inside were three simple words in a familiar hand:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MYCROFT.


End file.
